24. Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Four
Emma
“What is this?”
Dacre sets a plate in front of me as I’m prepping my station for the day. It’s a ham and cheese croissant, but it looks different from the ones we make in the morning.
“It’s brunch.” He looks otherwise uninterested in what I’m doing.
“I already ate.”
“Cereal isn’t breakfast.”
The hollowness in my stomach makes it hard to protest, and I take a bite.
Oh, this is cruel. It’s really, really good.
I chew while watching him ready his station and clean what must have been his project for the morning. He’s making me eat breakfast. I’m still unsure of where we stand, and my sleepless nights of imagining our evening in the kitchen together are not helping.
“You feel okay?” he asks in a whisper.
“Yeah, why?”
“Your scent . . . smells off.”
Off? I let the question drop because the longer I talk to him, the more I’m opening myself up to his sarcasm, and I’m not in the mood.
“I’ve got work to do. Thank you for the sandwich.”
There’s satisfaction in walking away from him this time. I guess I trust him. There haven’t been any university newspaper articles fluttering around about us. Still, it’s not as if I expect him to cuddle me or anything. If we’re scent-matches, then all he cared about was getting my blood.
Well, that’s what I thought until he brought me my favorite breakfast because he saw I wasn’t eating enough. I need some time to process this. Thankfully, today we’re learning about butchering, and I need to be focused.
The doors open, and Dacre’s grandfather strolls in, making a beeline for my station. I glance behind me to see if he’s really looking at me.
“Ms. Osborne, would you please accompany me into my office?”
“Yes . . . Chef,” I stutter. He is a chef, or he was at one time. Does he still want to be called one?
Dacre catches my eyeline seconds before I exit the lounge for Clyde Everhart’s office.
The leather squeaks when I sit across from him, and I can’t stop staring at the curl of his mustache. There’s little resemblance between him and Dacre, but they have a similar aura about them.
“You’re Edwin’s daughter.”
I feel the joy leak from my face, but I hold it together. Of course this conversation is happening because of my father. It’s always because of my family in some way. It’s never about my own talent.
“Yes.”
“He’s talked of your abilities in the kitchen, and I’ve seen your . . . tenacity. I think he’s quite proud of you, and I can see why. I’ve heard nothing but glowing things about your progress.”
No way. I bite my cheek to stop myself from getting lost in the excitement.
This is Dacre’s grandfather, after all, and I don’t know much about him.
That man who threatened Dacre mentioned that his grandfather didn’t know about what he was doing, but that doesn’t make him a safe person to trust. My dad certainly doesn’t think so.
“Thank you. This is all I’ve ever wanted.”
“So you’re enjoying your time in the culinary club? Everyone has been welcoming?”
“Yes, it’s all been . . . very enlightening. It’s a great challenge.”
“I’m glad you think so. All the best chefs in Vviveren aren’t afraid of challenges.” He adjusts his suit, and his chair spins just enough for me to make eye contact with the dog statue behind him.
“Would you like a drink?” He motions to his liquor cabinet next to his desk.
It’s like nine in the morning.
“I’m okay. Thank you, though.”
“May I ask you something?”
“Sir.”
“It’s not my intention to make you feel uncomfortable, knowing how things went for your mother. But as the chairman of the Donor Program, it’s always been my wish to make the culinary club something that aligns with my values.”
“Is this about my dad?”
“No, it’s about you. Please forgive me. I am going to be forward here, but know that there is no pressure from my end. We’re lucky to have you in the club.”
He continues when I say nothing.
“Your blood is important. It makes people do things. Those who are willing to share it, like your mother, are greatly valued. You have such a gift, and I want to make sure you understand the power you have and the opportunity. Sought after blood gets special interest from people who will put money toward things like charities or things of value to you.”
“Are you saying I should join the Donor Program?”
“No, not at all. I would never ask for something of that caliber. I suppose I’m just hoping that the way things went with your mother hasn’t hurt your idea of the Donor Program or its associations, because they could be beneficial to you.”
“I don’t think my mother had any regrets in her life, and neither do I. She believed in the Donor Program . . . and, I suppose, I do too. Out of my sisters, I’m definitely the most open minded about it.”
Even knowing what would happen, I believe she wouldn’t have done it any other way. She was so sure of herself. Even if she made mistakes, she wasn’t afraid to try. How could you have regrets when you did your best with the information you had at the time?
“She sounds like a wonderful woman.”
“Did you know her?”
“No. I never got the opportunity to meet her, but she left quite an impression on the world. Just look at you and your sisters.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate that.”
“I’m inviting the culinary club to one of my estates for the weekend. It’s not mandatory, but I hope you’ll attend. There’ll be a few chefs teaching that I bet you’ll recognize.”
“Of course, I’ll be there. Thank you again.”
He winks at me as I leave. I contemplate going straight to the restroom, but something tells me Dacre will worry if I don’t come back, and that’s somehow enough for me to make my way back to my station.
I hold a hand to my warm forehead. Maybe he was right.
Maybe I’m sick or something, and that’s why I smell different.
Class involves something I’ve never done before—learning the ins and outs of cutting meat. I knew I’d need to work on all aspects of the culinary arts here, but I wasn’t anticipating it would be so . . . bloody.
Luther is the main instructor for the day. He demonstrates, and the rest of us follow along. Then we perfect.
We’ll spend today learning, then every day for the next week is spent practicing doing the same thing over and over again. Whatever meat we successfully prepare will be cooked and served in the dining hall or at the dinner banquets for the board of directors.
I hate the smell. I hate the blood all over my gloves.
I hate Luther’s rapid explanations and the way he pesters us every five minutes.
He’s undoubtedly talented, but not a teacher.
I was hoping for something to change since I’ve been in the club.
There must be something wrong with me. Why am I not having any fun?
I love cooking. I didn’t expect to be making cookies day in and day out, but I can’t help but feel a little out of place.
How can it be that the one place I was sure I would fit, I’m misshapen somehow?
But there are years ahead here, and when I imagine myself close to graduation, white coat on, leading a class, I can’t imagine myself smiling while telling someone to redo their soufflé for the fifteenth time. Where is the fun in that?
I’m tired. That’s why I’m being negative. Everything is going to be fine. I’m letting Dacre’s pessimism get into my head.
He is watching me. I feel it, even if I don’t acknowledge it.
It’s undeniable that we shared something, even if it meant nothing to him. Not that it meant anything to me, either. It was just a moment when my recklessness might have gotten the better of me, and I bent, and he bent, and we landed somewhere in the middle.
I waited for the fallout of what I’d done, but there were no posts, no gossip floating about. The forums are still buzzing about my sister and her fiancé’s plans for holidays that are months away.
How can a child prodigy despise cooking? “Childhood dreams die painfully.”
Surely, there was a time when he did love it. So what changed? And if it changed in him, could it change in me too?